


No Choice

by KendylGirl



Series: When to Let Go [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BAMF John Watson, Established Relationship, Implied/Referenced Torture, Johnlock - Freeform, Love, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Organized Crime, Pining John, Reverse Reichenbach, True Love, Undercover Missions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-24
Updated: 2017-08-24
Packaged: 2018-12-18 18:17:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11880114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KendylGirl/pseuds/KendylGirl
Summary: Months into his mission inside an arm of Moriarty's crime network, John may have a way out, a way to return to the life he'd forfeited to save Sherlock.  But things are never that simple.





	No Choice

**Author's Note:**

> This story highlights items referenced in "When to Let Go" (particularly chapters 6 and 7). It will make the most sense if that is read first to put this installment into context.

Sherlock Holmes has lips made of iced cream.Frosty, solid.Unyielding.Until you press your own lips to them and feel them melt beneath you, sweet and pliant.Every touch sends jolts of pleasure from the surface skin to reticular dermis, to blood and nerves, through bone.Straight to the heart, making you want more.Instant addiction that your tongue pushes into and lavishes in thick, greedy swipes, deeper and deeper until that’s not enough, so you bite.Gently at first, a nip.But that makes your craving spike, so you devour, eccentric mouthfuls so overwhelming that they numb you, just for a moment, before the intoxicating flavor makes you moan with desire, and you take more.And more.And more.Until breathing is impossible, and your throat aches, and suddenly, before you’re ready, they’re gone.

This I know best of all. 

There is little else that I dream of anymore.His hands skimming lightly against my skin, his breath in gasps next to my ear, and his lips devouring my soul.And when I awaken in the morning before dawn, my back aching from the stiff mattress and my mind unsettled by the persistent smell of gunpowder in the air, I stare out into the grey mist that drapes against the Alps in the distance and imagine that he can still feel me, too, that he knows instinctively that I’m here, that he might be somehow waiting for me to come home.

I know it is stupid.

He’s not.He couldn't be.

He thinks I’m dead.

When I was a kid, I used to stargaze.On summer nights, I could lay on my back in the grass for hours, until dew formed on the blades around me, and just _stare_.The stars are marvelous, and I don’t mean that in the watered down sense that the word has taken on, but in the sincerity of _marveling_ at a phenomenon that defies words.Starlight is living history, millions of years old yet still existing in the present.That paradox gripped something within me.It was the first time that I allowed myself to think about the vastness outside of the suffocating limits of my neighborhood, all of the possibilities that my brain could not yet begin to comprehend.

The constellations felt like old friends, protectors, familiar patterns that would keep me grounded while there were screaming matches in the kitchen, doors slamming, and drunks stumbling on the stairs.Through it all, I kept my eyes riveted to the sky.I don’t know what I was watching for, exactly.But in the back of my mind, I always thought that eventually something would happen, as if someone was watching me at that precise moment and we would be able to connect across the lightyears that separated us.

All of that seemed the silly fantasies of a boy with too much imagination and too much time for puttering about.Pointless waffle that would be pounded out of me but good, swallowed whole by sandstorms and screams of agony and stutters of semi-automatics.

Until I met Sherlock.

Then it all made sense.

Really, Sherlock is the only thing that makes even a shred of this have some semblance of anything remotely like “sense.”

I cling to that.To him.

And, if I allow myself to sink down, far down, into the softer parts of me that I’m not permitted to have anymore, the thought that he will move forward with his life, that he might be stoked to have the flat as his solitary domain, that he’s relieved to be spared my ignorant prattle, that he might forget I existed at all, makes me ache in ways I never thought possible.

“Doctor?”

My hands grip the stone wall tighter.“You’re late,” I snap without turning around.These meetings have always made me edgy.I breathe deeply to steady myself, watching the bikers on the crisscross paths in the park below.

There’s a huff before the grumbled, “Well, it is a long way up here.”

I turn partially and take in Peters’s narrow, sweaty face.His rimless glasses slide on his skinny nose while he situates his windbreaker and sweeps back his greasy brown hair.He’s dressed in blue jeans and a yellow polo, presumably to pass as just another tourist.“There is a funicular, you know.”I can’t help but smirk at his glower.“Sorry.Seemed fitting to come to a fortress while in a war.This one’s stood over Salzburg for almost a thousand years.If that’s the precedent, then maybe we have a shot at survival.”

“I have orders.”

My spine stiffens subconsciously, but I can’t help myself.“From whom?”

“Him.”

“Who him?”

Peters’s glower deepens.“We don’t have time for this!” he hisses.

“I have few pleasures, Peters.Just say it once.You know you want to…come on…”

Peters glances left and right, then grits out.“From Penguin.”

I feel laughter bubble out of me for the first time in ages.“Now was that so hard?”Mycroft’s code name had been my idea, as if there were another that better suited his aquiline nose and bizarre attachment to that fucking umbrella.

“He said you’re done.You’re to return to London.I’m to put you in a car to the airport right now.There’s a plane arranged for your transport.”

I freeze, my ears buzzing.“What?”

“You heard me.”

“But…how?Why?”The organization was in triage, Bajzath in such a foam after our frantic retreat here that I hadn’t been called to see him in days.The only testament that the bastard was still stomping around were the dozens of Mozartkugeln wrappers littering the compound’s remote grounds.No matter the collapse in Prague, apparently nothing could interfere with that prick’s raging obsession for sweets, my medical advice be damned.Not that I give a shit.If his teeth were to rot in his skull and his blood sugar reach four digits, I’d not lose a wink.

But I have no idea about his current state of mind, the track of his paranoiac suspicions, or what his next move would be.

“That’s complicated.”Peters looks away.“Be happy, Doctor.Your job is done here.”

I swallow hard.I feel dazed by the idea, as if I never thought I would ever get this chance, but I had never wanted to admit that to myself before.The chance to be home, to be free of the constant acid in my stomach at the threat of being discovered, the juggling of identities, the constant anger vibrating along my nervous system, the brutality, the loneliness?

The chance to sip some real tea and watch trash telly?

At Baker Street.With Sherlock.

With his head in my lap and my hands in his soft hair; his sleepy insults hurled at the idiots on screen and my giggling until my eyes won’t stay open; sliding down to drift off tangled in his lanky limbs.

“This—this is—“ _Oh, get it together, Watson!_ I shake away the rush of tears before it is able to seat itself in my eyes.

“There’s a taxi waiting on Brunnhausgasse with pink paint on its bumper.It will take you to the airport tonight.”He shoves an envelope of documents at me.

Above us, in the inner chambers of the fortress, a quartet begins rehearsal for its evening concert, the cascading notes of a single violin wafting down to us like snowflakes.They gather in my hair and my eyelashes, and when I try to inhale, they choke my lungs with ice. 

My breath’s turned painful, clipped.Hyperventilating.No, stop it.Keep clear.Something is not right here, but I can’t—I’m not sure—“Wait.What did you mean?”

Peters stares at me.

My tongue is fumbling.“Before.You said ‘complicated’—what does that mean?How complicated?”

Peters hesitates.He looks me up and down, scratches his cheek.Deciding.“Look—“

I grab the collar of his jacket and drag him forward until his nose is an inch below my chin.He squawks, but I tighten my grip mercilessly.“Tell me.Now.” 

I push him away, and he coughs and spits on the pavement.

“Fine!Jesus!”He glances around again and takes a tentative step forward.“Bajzath is going to have to work out what happened in Prague.He’s down four men and two million pounds, and that is not going to pass to the next level without…scrutiny.”

I squeeze my eyes shut.Of course.“He’ll clean house.”

“Yes.Thoroughly.Before he worries about anyone outside of his command.”

“So Moriarty might not end up his target after all.”

“That’s still probable.”

I sneer at him.“Fuck all, Peters, even I don't believe you.”I have to turn away, look out at the skyline and the snowy ridge of mountains, center in on the rush of the pale green waters of the Salzach tumbling in the distance."If I leave now, he’ll assume it was me.”

“Yes, but it doesn’t mean that he won’t also blame Moriarty, too, by extension.That goal can still come to fruition.”

“It’s probable.”

“Yes.”

My chest tightens.“That’s not good enough.”

Peters clamps his mouth closed, then points a finger at me.“Do you have any idea what will happen?He’s not going to just hand you a questionnaire, Doctor.These interrogations won’t have limits.This will be _ugly_.”His eyes bulge to show me just how much he is understating the situation.

My extremities feel cold.“I understand that.But I am not leaving until this mission is secure.”

“That’s insanity!You’ll be totally at his mercy.We cannot guarantee your safety!”

My throat is so tight that my words bite out in a growl.“You bloody moron, it’s not _my_ safety that I want guaranteed!”

Peters sobers at that.He straightens and looks me over for several long moments.“You’re sure?”Ah. He wants to cover his own arse.“Your extraction is in place, you’ve got a way out, but you’re choosing to remain at your post, is that correct?”

“Yes.”I feel like stone.

His shoulders sag, and he shakes his head faintly.“Why?”

I stare at him, motionless.There’s no way to explain this to him.There’s no way I could make him understand what it feels like when someone startling and unique in all the world crawls under your skin without you even being aware that it’s happened, someone who makes every color more intense and every sense more alive, who makes you feel breathless and lightheaded just by meeting your eyes, whose touch leaves invisible fingerprints all over you until they’re the only things you see when you look at your own reflection.I don’t have the words for what it is like to empty out your own ribcage and fill it up with bits of someone else, someone who now owns you in every way, the most _wonderful_ way, that you never could have imagined in your most riotous of stargazing dreams.

After a few moments, he huffs.“Shit.I hope whoever it is, is worth it.”

I force my throat to work, and my voice sounds cobbled.“Yes.Worth more than I have to give.”

His eyebrows crinkle.“More than your _life_?”

“Far more.”

Peters throws up his hands.“Fine!Great.I’ll inform Penguin.Usual protocols apply to next contact.”He puts his hands on his hips and shuffles a foot, mumbling, “Assuming you're able.”

I nod abruptly and turn on my heel to leave.I only get a few steps before I hear Peters faintly, “Good luck, Doctor.”

I pause and glance back.Peters looks regretful, slightly sickened, like he’s just personally signed the paper to send me to the guillotine.

I know I’ve treated him like an utter cock.He’s only doing his job, so I really should apologize.

After all, it’s quite likely that we will never meet again.

“Relax, Peters.I know what I’m doing.This is my choice, and really, I made it years ago.Do you know what I mean?”

He blinks.“You mean there was never a choice to make.”

My head declines.In an instant I’m hit by a silhouette against the moon on a rooftop in Brixton, scarf and coattails flipping in the wind. _Marvelous._ An involuntary smile.“Right.”

Peters gulps.“Understood.”

A small wave, and I evaporate in the crowd.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. John's meeting takes place at Hohensalzburg, a castle fortification that sits in the hills above the city; it is a fascinating monument with gorgeous views of the city and surrounding country, complete with restaurant and regular concerts of classical music. I was so blessed to visit there last summer, canceling other reservations to remain there longer. Few places I have been are as wholly delightful as Salzburg, and I would go again in a heartbeat.
> 
> 2\. Mozartkugeln are all over Salzburg (as are most things that relate to their favorite musical son). The Mirabell variety are sinful rounds of layered chocolate and marzipan deliciousness.
> 
> 3\. Every time I post a chunk of this (or any) story, I feel like I've stepped over the edge of an abyss. It's terrifying, not knowing how (or if) it reaches an audience. Take pity--please tell me what you think!


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